The Swear Jar
by lostinanotherworld24
Summary: What happens with you mix a team of Navy SEALS, and a swear jar? Deviousness comes out to play.


A/N: I recently discovered SEAL Team and am absolutely in love! I hope you enjoy my story, thanks for reading, and don't forget to leave a review! By the by, at the end, the phrase Ray says is "fucking hell" in Portuguese.

"Motherfucker!" Clay shouted as he flew ass-over-teakettle, tripped by someone's duffel left laying in the middle of the cages. Snickers abounded as the guys got dressed for the day, with Sonny murmuring in his drawl about how it might have been his. Clay shot them all a glare as he got up and went into his cage, rubbing his head where it really fucking hurt.

"Do we need to have a team discussion about not leaving shit laying out again? Cause if we do, I guarantee it's gonna end in a certain unit running hills till they puke," Jason threatened wearily, wondering how he got stuck with a bunch of children masquerading as grown men.

The snickers ceased quick at the threat, with a solemn no muttered in unison. Jason had no desire to actually make them run hills, as that would most likely only be a punishment for him, because he'd have to hear their continual bitching and moaning, arguments and complaints. However, what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

"I don't understand how hard it is for someone to fucking clean up after themselves," Brock stated, tugging a shirt over his head.

"You're one to talk man, you got that dog of yours. Martha Stewart you sure as shit ain't," Ray sniped back.

Jason began to bark out an order for them to cut the chatter, but his words were halted by Blackburn unexpectedly entering the cages. He had a familiar look on his face, the look that meant that some higher up got upset with how things ran, and decided they needed to change. Sigh.

"Gentlemen, you were not made aware of this, but several higher ups have been reviewing transcripts of your comms after action in the field. They were unhappy with some of the language used during operations, and so I am now forced to institute a no-swearing policy. Anyone caught swearing must put a dollar into a jar, and at the end of the week, however many dollars are in that jar will be how many times you guys run hills. Is that clear?"

Silence reigned in the usually noisy dressing area; everyone stared at the commander as if he'd just stripped naked and killed a cat. Even Jason, who was more than used to bullshit policies, was left dumbfounded.

"You have got to be kidding me," Sonny drawled. "That makes as much sense as tits on a bull."

"Commander, I understand we don't always use the best language. But, in the heat of the moment, what gets a point across better: move it, or _fucking_ move it! I think we can all agree it's the second choice right?" Clay questioned, glancing around for the support of his teammates. Brothers till the end, they all nodded in agreement.

"Regardless of what you think, the higher-ups have decreed it, and it will be so. And, as it turns out, our first contributor gets to be Special Petty Officer Spenser. Better start watching the language, or you boys will be in for a lot of running," Blackburn raised his eyebrows and exited the room.

Jason surveyed the room, and rubbed at his forehead with exhaustion. With how frequently and casually dirty language flew around here, they wouldn't stop running till Christmas. He sighed, and held up a hand to thwart the avalanche of words Sonny was about to spew. The last thing they needed was for Sonny to get some hot-headed idea and get them all in trouble.

"Jace, you can't seriously think about letting this stand?" Ray questioned as he resumed getting ready.

"I don't know what there is to do. We need the favor of the higher-ups, and that means picking our battles. This may be one we just have to accept, and hope they forget about in a few weeks."

"C'mon Jason, I mean we all think this is stupid. What, all of a sudden we're supposed to sound like old ladies in church when our leg gets blown up?" Clay scoffed.

"Just, try to ease up on the swearing, at least for now."

Xxxxx

The plane ride home the following Friday had an worn, exhausted feel, as they'd been non-stop running and gunning from when they'd touched down. A group of schoolchildren abducted by terrorists had needed rescuing; everything had gone wrong when it was revealed they had faulty intel. Three targets had turned into 50, and soon the team was overwhelmed and needed a quick exfil. Reinforcements had been sent in, and ultimately they did save all the children.

"Gentlemen," Blackburn began. "It is end of the day Friday, which means we are tallying up the total money contributed to the swear jar. So far, we have $40 worth of contributions. I expect each and every one of you to report to base at oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow to run hills. Get some rest, it's gonna be a hard one."

Groans erupted from the entire team.

"$_40? _Man, how did it even _get_ that high?" Ray moaned.

"Sonny was cursing up a pretty good storm when his leg got stuck," Clay laughed.

Everyone broke into laughter as a blush spread across Sonny's fair skin.

"And Clay, remember when you were trying to get that woman to evacuate, and she couldn't understand you?" Jason reminded him.

Clay tipped his head back in dread.

"Man, tomorrow's gonna _suck,_" Brock declared.

Xxxxx

If Bravo's team collective sweat had been rain, there would have been enough to prevent global droughts for the next 1,000 years. At the end of the 40 laps, the normally-boisterous team had quieted, the sound of their pants for breaths the only noise. Sonny was near collapse, and the other guys weren't far off. Sure, they trained hard normally, but this was pushing the limit of what their bodies could physically handle.

Finally, the torture ended, and the boys pretty much fell where they stood. Exhaustion and pain from their aching legs was about all they could feel, along with irritation at those unable to control their mouths. Everyone cursed, yes, but some did it more than others.

"Sonny, I swear to God, if you do not watch your mouth this week," Ray threatened.

"What he said," Clay wheezed, sucking down a bottle of water.

Sonny, more concerned with pulling air into his lungs, simply flapped a hand at them.

Xxxxx

"Okay, something's gotta change," Clay announced one day a few weeks later. They were all gathered in the cages, each eyeballing that stupid jar. It was only Monday and they were already up to $10. "We haven't put enough thought into this."

"Unless you can make the powers that be magically forget about this little experiment, I don't see anything changing," Ray informed Clay as he rolled on deodorant.

"They can only get us on the words they can understand. If we swear in other languages, who are they to know better," a slow smile spread across Clay's face.

"I like the way you think," Jason pointed at Clay.

"Well, what are the best curse words you know?" Sonny inquired.

Xxxxx

Clay followed behind Ray, each sweeping their guns from side to side as they crossed the dusty, deserted road. A firefight with insurgents led to Jason calling for them to go high, and cover the team from the roof of a building on the opposite street. At the door, Ray tried to shove it open, only to find it was solidly locked.

"Porra do inferno," Ray muttered. He backed up, aimed his weapon, and shot the lock, bursting through with Clay hot on his heels.

Jason heard the muttered curse, and grinned to himself. The counter to the rules proved successful, and they'd gone the entire week without needing to put money in the jar. When Eric had reported of the higher-ups complaints of them cheating, Jason had simply said it was their responsibility to be more precise when setting the rules.

There was a reason nobody fucked with Bravo Team.


End file.
